so come out of your cave walking on your hands
by streetlightskeletons
Summary: It's not that he had never experienced racism, but it had never been an issue for him. Growing up in the League of Assassins, he learnt early on that actions meant more than words, that blades and bullets hurt more than insults and slurs. But it didn't change the fact that someone had hurt Grayson, and Damian wasn't the forgetting type.


"You're mighty acrobatic, aren't you? Good as those circus freaks, almost. Is that what you are? A _gypsy_?"

Damian couldn't stop the deep, animalistic growl that crawled up his throat as Grayson stiffened beside him. His sudden rigidness was too subtle for the guy to notice, but _Damian_ noticed and was pissed on his behalf. The other man sitting on the ground started, hesitant and bewildered, and subtly shifted away from the man that had spoken.

Damian grunted in approval. _Smart man_ , he thought, _he's right to think that there's nothing he could do to stop me from decapitating that racist bastard_.

Damian knew that his older brother was practically untouchable. He had figured that out himself when he had first arrived at the manor; snarling and throwing out insults as a means to protect himself from unwanted advances - seeing as the usual _physical_ methods were prohibited in Father's house. But Grayson had let the verbal assaults wash over him like water over stones. Sometimes, he would have hesitated - in mild shock, more than anything else - but he would soon bounce back to his standard, loquacious self, much to the younger boy's vexation.

Over time, Damian had noticed that the man had slipped through the cracks in his defences. He realised that he would smile – small, and hidden, unnoticeable – around the older man, when he would crack jokes or tease his other younger brothers. He had found himself occasionally, _intentionally_ seeking out the man – not for conversation but for company.

He felt less tense around the older man for some unexplained, bizarre reason. He made the younger boy feel comfortable, despite his communicative nature and tendencies. He talked so much, and so consistently, that Damian felt like he could crawl underneath his words into shadowed refuge – he never said anything of importance, and Damian never answered if he did. His constant chatter felt like a blanket, something that would hide him from everyone else's questions. Because that's all other people wanted – to ask him questions or demand him to do something.

 _(What was the League like? What was Ra's like? Were you treated well? Why are you so angry? How many people have you killed?)_

But Grayson didn't want to know any of that, or, if he did, he never asked. At first, Damian had tried to smother the situation ruthlessly, but, eventually, he reluctantly and begrudgingly accepted what was happening. He had dug his own grave – damn his pride for having to lay in it.

In the end, he found the arrangement pleasant - not that he would admit that to anyone else but himself. It was easy to lounge in a chair in the manor library, the fire roaring and a book on his lap, with Dick browsing the shelves, keeping up a one-sided conversation. Or drink chai karak at the kitchen island, listening half-heartedly at Dick's mumblings as he attempted to recreate Alfred's infamous cookies, all because the butler refused to give up the recipe.

Damian had tried the man's results. They tasted awful, half-baked with clumps of flour, but he had found himself nodding and humming in approval around a mouthful, regardless. Grayson's hesitant and hopeful face had lit up, and Damian remembered mirroring the beaming grin to a lesser degree in response.

He recalled the night that he had woken up in the middle of the night, thirsty. He remembered standing with Alfred's umbrella held tightly in his small hand in the kitchen doorway, before he realised that the only people in said room were Grayson and Todd. He had hidden in the shadows as he had watched Dick wince as he drank his tea, laced with honey, if the open jar was any indication.

He recalled Jason saying, quietly, but gruffly, " _You're hurting yourself, Dick. You need to stop"_

" _The kid needs me to, Jay, I can't,_ " Dick had protested. He remembered, even more clearly, how rough and gravelly his voice was, weak and scratchy. Painful sounding.

It was around that time that he started telling Grayson to stop talking so much whenever they were together, and, he wasn't keeping track, but it must have been after that that he started calling him a brother. Even though he didn't mention that night, he remembered Dick smiling knowingly at him every time he told him to shut up, and Damian remembered absentmindedly wondering if Talia had ever known him as well as Dick seemed to.

But during those first couple of weeks at the manor, when he was insolent and ill-mannered, he never once crossed _the line_.

He only realised that there _was_ a line at a _Wayne Enterprise Fundraiser,_ held at the manor. He should have remembered that particular ball for many different reasons; it was the first one he had attended, for one thing, and he had to wear the most intolerable tuxedo. It was plain black – unlike Dick's black and burgundy monstrosity that he had, obviously, picked himself – and was custom made, tailored so the suit jacket wrapped tightly, but not uncomfortably, around his body, both restraining him and reminding him that he had to _be nice_.

Luckily, Grayson, Todd and Drake were required – forced – to attend as well, so he wasn't alone in being thrown to the wolves. He was glad of it, as the older boys created enough of a meal for Damian to escape the well-meaning ladies. They playfully pinched his older brothers' asses instead of pinching his cheeks, which he was grateful for.

Damian was well-versed in dancing, which was a requirement for the ball, so it didn't bother him much. He found dancing to be similar to fighting; although ballroom dancing was a lot less fast-paced and violent. He was a natural at martial arts, so it didn't take long for him to slip into the easy glides and turns.

What did bother him more was the conversation part of the ball. Thankfully, Grayson seemed to realise this - or perhaps Bruce had told him to tail the younger boy, worried that he would run his mouth - and they wandered the ballroom together. Occasionally, they saw Todd and Drake together, and Damian realised that they had adopted the same formation. He remembered smirking in irony – whether they were running on rooftops or if they were dancing in ballrooms, defence tactics always seemed best.

Damian remembered that the night had been running surprisingly smoothly until a pair of older ladies had made their way to them. He had had a sense of foreboding as soon as he had seen them, and Bruce always told him to trust his gut, so he tensed, battle-ready. Dick looked down at him in confusion but didn't say anything.

"Evening, ladies," Dick had greeted, ever the charmer. He leaned forward and politely welcomed them with a French greeting kiss, one cheek and then the other. Damian simply nodded. Dick continued, "It's lovely to see you here, Ms Merriweather, Miss Radley"

"Well, don't you boys scrub up nice?" the younger lady cooed, holding her clutch bad with both hands in front of her. She turned to her companion, "Don't they, Grace?"

The other lady hummed in agreement and chuckled delicately. "You both look very handsome"

Damian smiled tightly, knowing that it was coming off as more of a grimace, while Dick blushed and thanked them for their kind words. Ms Merriweather was old and withered, around 70, and it looked like she had tried to cover the consequences of aging with makeup and bright clothing. Although she didn't quite hit the mark, because her makeup seemed to enhance the drooping skin of her face than hide it, and her bright yellow power suit was distasteful, at best.

Miss Radley was younger, but old enough that Damian felt weird referring to her as 'miss'. Her hair was pulled up in a tight bun, pinned back ruthlessly with bobby pins that she had tried to find. Her eyes were abnormally bright, and the fake smile on her face seemed permanent, going by the lines and deep fissures that run across her face.

Damian wasn't paying attention as his eyes were wandering around the room, looking for a clock, but he snapped back to the conversation when he heard Grayson's slightly bewildered, " _Excuse me_?"

"Oh, I didn't mean anything by it," Ms Merriweather brushed off, but Damian could see a glint in her eye that suggested that maybe she did. Damian didn't know what was said, but he was observant, and he could see Dick's tightened jaw and he could feel the tension radiating from the older man.

"What did you say?" Damian asked, eyes narrowed. He was too brusque, apparently, because Dick nudged him warningly, but he didn't apologize.

"Why, I just said that you couldn't figure out what he came from if you didn't already know," Ms Merriweather stated, taking a small drink from her champagne glass. Damian didn't understand what she meant, but he thought he saw a sharp smirk on her lips that she hid behind the glass.

"I must agree," Miss Radley added, flustered, "I watch _My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding_ on occasion – a guilty pleasure, I must say – and none of them are as put-together as this young man before me, I assure you"

"Excuse me, ladies, Bruce is waving me over," Dick said suddenly, slightly louder than necessary, with a hint of steel in his tone. Bruce wasn't even in the room.

Miss Radley was shakily saying her goodbyes as he pushed past them, not glancing back. Damian stayed where he was, rooted to the spot, before following his older brother – he didn't even bother with any departing words. His restraint was tested. Every fibre of his being wanted to return to the ladies and give them a piece of his mind, or his sword, but he couldn't do that to Dick.

Instead, he found Father and told him what had happened. He hated being a snitch, but he hated those ladies more, and watching as Bruce's eyes darkened, excusing himself from his company, Damian felt that he had handled the situation fairly well. Bruce had left, and Damian had never seen Miss Radley or Ms Merriweather ever again. They were lucky, because Damian knew he wouldn't have been able to hold himself back if he was ever in the same room as them again - he wasn't sure that he wanted to. He never saw Dick the rest of that night.

From that moment, Damian realised there was a line. It's not that he had never experienced racism – towards others or towards himself, as a mixed race child – but it had never been an issue for him. Growing up in the League of Assassins, he learnt early on that actions meant more than words, that blades and bullets hurt more than insults and slurs.

But it obviously hurt Dick, more than he would show. He never talked about it, anything but, and Damian never mentioned it again, but he made a silent agreement with himself following that night. Prejudice would not be tolerated, it never was, but especially towards Dick. The man had helped him when he didn't know that he had needed him and, if the League had taught him anything, it was to always repay your debts. This was his way.

"Shut your mouth, you hear?" Damian snapped at the goon, zip-tied and defeated. The man's eyes narrowed and he smirked, challenging.

"What you gonna do, hm?" he said, spitting blood from his mouth into the alley. "If he's a gypsy, then what-"

He didn't get to finish his sentence because Damian was suddenly there. He snarled and dragged the man up the alley wall with his lapels clenched in his fists. He leaned in close, and the man's bravo dissipated quickly, his eyes roaming wildly for a way out. Damian wouldn't give him one.

"Stand down, Robin," a voice said from behind, soft and understanding, "It's okay-"

"It's _not_ okay," Damian snapped, whirling around and dropping the man on his ass. He hit the ground hard and grunted, but Damian didn't care.

"No, it's not. But we've got him already, alright?" Nightwing reasoned, his weapons stored in his back holster, leaving his hands free to fall on Damian's shoulder, gently but firmly dragging him away the bound criminals. "He's over"

Damian grumbled, not content, but he stilled as Dick leant down. He had a small smile on his face and his features were soft, eyebrows raised. He felt Dick drop his hands from his shoulders, keeping one resting on his back.

" _Thank you_ ," Dick whispered in his ear, leaning back. He caught his eye and smiled in gratitude.

Damian shrugged his hand off and straightened, sniffing sharply, petulant. "Whatever"

But when Grayson turned away, addressing the arriving police, he smiled to himself, small and unnoticeable.


End file.
